Spark Deep
by unknown ghost author
Summary: That summer, electrical storms ravaged and burned over Cybertron and the whole world fell apart around them. That summer, Jazz pressed the first kiss into Prowl's nervous lips. That summer, Jazz was sent to assassinate Prowl.


Title: Spark Deep  
>Rating: R<br>Universe: G1  
>Pairing: JazzProwl  
>Word Count: 16,410<p>

* * *

><p>That summer, electrical storms ravaged and burned over Cybertron as the whole world fell apart. The skies fell faster than the buildings and the dark nights were illuminated with the burning of a thousand lives. Scratches of lightning tore across the planet, and Prowl's spark resounded with the devastation of his entire life. That summer, Jazz pressed the first kiss into Prowl's nervous lips and two sparks found each other in resonance outside the Matrix. That summer, the whole world fell apart and Jazz was sent to assassinate Prowl.<p>

Back then, Prowl worked in the Council Chambers in Iacon, directly supporting the Praxian Senator as his personal and legislative aide. His world was small, his friends few, and though he worked in the grandest and most opulent seat of power in the entire planet, Prowl's life was a study of modest, humble practices. He lived in a simple flat in a quiet sector of the city, and his daily purpose existed within the routines of his day and the execution of his duties. He lived to serve others, and the quiet fulfillment of tasks and operations behind the scenes was where his niche was. He was the definition of reliable, a study in dependability. He was the best attaché in the entire Council, and Senator Emberwire knew it. Emberwire counted himself lucky every single cycle.

Jazz was a Section Leader within the Autobot Black Operations units, personally commanding Section Six. Technically, their three-mech team _didn't_ exist and he _didn't_ report to his Column Commander, Orion Pax. Still, there were lots of things he technically _didn't_ do, things they could never speak of, and his assignment to assassinate Prowl was just one of those many, many things. Orion Pax's side assignment, a private request made entirely off-channels, was another thing Jazz could never technically admit to ever doing.

His mission to eliminate Prowl had come from the top, however, after a long series of intelligence gathering operations narrowed the dragnet around an infiltrator and mole at the Council Chambers to one. One of their own, one of their insiders within the Chambers itself, was sending detailed, classified and highly sensitive information out to the dissident movement in the South. Troop movements, military deployments, supply shipments, technical specifications, all of it was up for grabs, and much of it had been smuggled out from Iacon only to turn up in the slums and dregs of the Southern city-states, banding together and turning against their Northern brethren.

The grumbles of a few dissidents in the South around Kaon had turned to an angry rumble, which quickly spread and grew into a conflagration of bitter enmity. Insurrection began, and Iacon sent the full power of its mighty army, led by Commander Megatron, to quell the unrest. Insurgency followed on the heels of the military crackdown, and the rage exploded. Communiqués of rebellion, revolution, and secession filtered out from beneath the totalitarian blockade sweeping the southern half of the planet. Calls for help, for aide and for mechs to join their struggle in arms blazed over underground wires and radios.

The bitter grumbles of a few unhappy mechs toward unpopular policies of the Iacon elite had sparked a riotous upwelling of unchecked rage, bursting and tearing across the entire planet. Unease filled every breath, and the anticipation of change, whether asked for or not, was hanging on every word. It was an uneasy time to be a Cybertronian at the beginning of one of their hottest summers.

_And_, Jazz thought ruefully as he settled himself into his new undercover role within Iacon's elite living sector, _it was an uneasy time to be his prey._

* * *

><p>Prowl had had a long and trying day at the Council, and by the time it was finally finished, he was ready for a relaxing break. Most days, he spent his few, extremely punctual breaks in the central Iacon Sculpture Garden, but at the end of exceptionally trying sessions, Prowl headed to the oil bar only a few blocks from the Council. It was a downtown affair, and it attracted a mixed clientele: loud, boisterous business mechs, seemingly always celebrating at the end of their days, laboring mechs, come for the specials on oil and the cool atmosphere - and staying well away from the business mechs - and the scattered handfuls of traveling, visiting, and bar hopping mechs out for a cool drink to quench their tanks or energize their systems. As the night wore on, the crowds shifted, the oil grew heavier, the energon of a higher grade, and the energy positively crackled throughout the entire bar.<p>

Prowl never stayed that long. He had one drink, nursing it slowly as he watched the mechs around him, saw the outward expressions of their different lives, their communications and simple connections they made with the mechs and friends surrounding them, and then slipped out silently to head to his quiet, tidy, lonely home. No one ever spoke to him. No one ever noticed him. Not even the bartender spared him a word while serving him his drink.

When Jazz, who had been observing Prowl for a full orn, stepped into the bar, _everything _seemed to pause for a long, full astrosecond. It was long enough for Prowl to notice, long enough for him to look up from his drink, and long enough for his optics to brighten with surprise, intrigue, and then embarrassment. He lowered his helm quickly, and the raucous noise of the bar resumed, as if there had never been a pause.

Prowl fidgeted in his seat.

Jazz smirked, cold, as he maneuvered himself into the shadowy corners.

Jazz had spent an orn following Prowl, learning his every move, watching his every action, memorizing his every routine. For a duplicitous spy and an agent of the rebellion and the insurrection, Prowl lived a quiet, monotonous life. His routine was as ingrained as his datachips, and Jazz was almost surprised there weren't indentations of footfalls leading from Prowl's flat to the Council Chambers and back again. _It was almost as boring observing Prowl's life and routine as it must be to live it,_ Jazz thought after only the second cycle. Still, he had seen mechs like Prowl time and time again: bored, solitary, desperate figures, yearning for meaning and fulfillment within their lives, willing to sell themselves to the first person to give an electron about their existence. He wondered what Prowl's price had been to sell out everything he claimed to work for and every mech he claimed to support and uphold.

Jazz's plan was to offer Prowl a better price, a better place to turn to, and once their suspicions and intelligence were confirmed, to eliminate the threat. _Eliminate_ Prowl.

Jazz watched and waited as a group of rowdy mechs jostled back and forth at the bar next to Prowl until one of them stumbled and bumped into the lone doorwinger hunched over his drink. Prowl's doorwings flared as he fought to balance himself, and the wrestling mechs pushed away from him with only the faintest of mumbled apologies. Prowl's doorwings fluttered as he righted himself on his barstool, and Jazz chose that moment to make his move. He sauntered forward, resting himself against the bar in the vacant space on the opposite side of Prowl. At first, he ignored Prowl entirely, catching the optics of the bartender with a roguish sort of arrogance.

"Heya, darlin'" Jazz drawled. "Got anythin' with a higher octane?" His optics shone behind his visor.

The bar mech smirked back, raking his gaze over Jazz's body. "I might. Got some Seeker fuel I could fix you up with."

"Mmmm, that sounds 'bout right," Jazz smiled, nodding. "But what's it gonna cost me?"

The bar mech didn't answer. He gave Jazz another full body leer and turned away to grab the far more potent fuel mixture. Jazz smirked behind the bar mech's back, pushing closer to Prowl. He made sure to squeeze just barely too close, but not close enough to touch. Jazz could feel Prowl growing stiff at his side and could sense the tense vibrations of his doorwings, held low along his backplating.

When the bar mech returned, he slid the Seeker fuel across the bar top toward Jazz and waved away his attempts to pull out a credit chit with a small smile of his own. "Just don't cause any trouble," the bartender chuckled. "We haven't seen a mech like you here in a while." He punctuated the meaning behind his words with another long, lingering look over Jazz's body.

Jazz smirked and flicked his wrist, subspacing his credit datacard in a whirl. Next to him, Prowl shifted slightly away from Jazz's encroaching presence. His optics were fixed to his drink, staring intently at the bar top and the swirling liquid inside his cube.

Jazz peered down at his target. Prowl was so nervous, so obsequious, so unexceptionally _boring_. This would be an easy, Primusly too easy, assignment. _Best to get it over with._ Plastering his best and most seductively flirtatious look upon his face, Jazz turned to Prowl, leaning causally against the bar top. "Why, 'ello there, mech," he drawled, letting the honeyed baritone of his outlander accent slip into his speech. It always helped make him stand out.

Prowl froze, every gear and motion stopping at once. His mouth dropped open, freezing in a tiny "o," and Jazz had the distinct impression of a petrorabbit trying to evade his predator by standing perfectly still cross his processor.

_Too slagging easy_. "You with anyone here?"

Prowl's optics finally darted toward Jazz, quickly seizing up what he had already taken full notice of when Jazz stepped into the bar. His gaze brightened, embarrassment lining the edges of his optics, and he turned back to his drink. "Hello," he replied softly, being polite. "I'm just having a drink," he added, almost breathless.

"All by your lonesome?" Jazz's helm tiled to the side, flopping almost to his shoulder in the image of concern and care. His optics burned into Prowl's profile, studying his every facial tic from behind his visor.

Prowl flinched. "If you're expecting someone, I can move. You can have the seat." Prowl made to stand, already halfway out of his chair and leaving his drink behind before Jazz could react.

"Whoa!" Jazz said, laughing. "I was just askin', that's all. Sit down, mech!" He gestured for Prowl to sit once more, smiling and holding out the barstool for him. "I'm here all on m' lonesome too, so we can drink together. How's that sound?"

If Prowl's facial reaction was anything to go by, it sounded absolutely awful. His optics flashed as his face blanched, and he slowly sank down into his seat with a shaky inhale. His fingers reached for his drink tentatively, pulling it close.

"So, what's your name?" Jazz perched himself on the stool next to Prowl, turning to face the nervous doorwinger as he rested one of his pedes on the lower rung of Prowl's stool. One leg dangled between them, casual and careless and effectively trapping Prowl.

Prowl swallowed before he answered, and he only briefly met Jazz's gaze. "Prowl," he said. Jazz noticed Prowl eyeing his pede. He scooted fractionally away from the invasion as subtly as he could.

"Prowl…" Jazz mouthed, rolling the name around his mouth and letting his accent play with the simple designation. He said it as if he hadn't already had a dozen briefings on the mech before him, as if he were just meeting him, and as if he _wanted_ to know his name. Finally, he cocked his helm once more, smiling that sly smile of his, the one that always undid mechs. "M'name is Sol." He let his smile linger, playing on the edges of his lips.

Prowl's optics flicked sideways, raking over Jazz's black-painted body before rising to meet Jazz's gaze. "Sol?" he asked. It was the most he'd ever truly looked at Jazz, and it was only an astrosecond. "You must enjoy irony." Prowl shifted back to his drink.

Surprised, Jazz grinned. He hadn't expected Prowl to display any nuanced humor. Most mechs, faced with Jazz's charm, showed nothing of the sort, and Jazz had already decided Prowl was an unsophisticated simpleton, eager for adulation and praise. Humor was a product of the intelligent processor, and he had doubted Prowl possessed one. Glancing down over his dark paintjob, all black lines and angles wrapped with gold and midnight accents, Jazz nodded slowly, chuckling. "Well, ya caught me there. That I do." He winked from behind his visor at Prowl. "What are ya drinking?"

Prowl glanced sideways once more, seemingly surprised at every new question. "Just a simple midgrade brew," he began.

"Oh, c'mon on!" Jazz goaded, leaning almost close enough to touch. "Let loose! Here!" Jazz reached out, pouring a healthy portion of his Seekergrade energon into Prowl's midgrade. It fizzed, plopping and mixing together as the energies crackled and coalesced.

"No!" Prowl tried to stop Jazz's reach, but he watched helplessly as Jazz completed his healthy dosing of the ultra-refined high-octane fuel. Grimacing, Prowl's doorwings slumped. "Thanks," he mumbled, peering down into his cube.

"No problem, Prowl." Jazz grinned as he took a quick swig from his now nearly-empty cube. He watched Prowl carefully as the silence built. "So, whatta ya do, Prowl?"

Again, that surprised look from Prowl, that cautious glance Jazz's way. His lips pressed together and he shrugged self-deprecatingly. "I'm just an aide."

Jazz nodded, musing aloud. "Well, only powerful an' interestin' mechs have aides," he teased.

Finally, Prowl cracked a small, timid smile. "I work for a good mech," he said softly. His optics shifted and he looked away, staring out over the bar.

Jazz frowned. He hadn't expected shyness or closed-mouthedness. None of this clamming up. He'd expected Prowl to be near bursting to talk about his accomplishments, his work, his personal professionalism and all the perceived ways he was slighted or underappreciated. This feint of modesty was unexpected, and for a moment, Jazz was puzzled. "Huh, he grunted. "Well, that's good. You like your job." He paused, leaving Prowl an opening to seize. Nothing. "Well, wanna know what I do?" He pushed a teasing lilt into his voice.

Silence. Jazz let it span almost to the limits of discomfort before he spoke again. Prowl's doorwings were fidgeting, and he could see the faintest depression around his lip, as if he were biting it on the inside of his mouth. "I'm a songwriter," Jazz offered, leaning close, sharing a secret. He had perfected his cover over the years and had chosen a cover profession that was both interesting and that he could live within, as well as being a conversation starter and a point of intrigue for nearly every mech he met.

Every mech, it seemed, saved Prowl. Prowl turned halfway toward him, a polite expression of acknowledgement on his face and nodded once. "That's nice," he said quickly.

"Well, don't you want to know what songs I've written?" Jazz teased.

He was growing concerned.

Prowl shrugged. "I wouldn't know them." He made to take a sip from his drink, but stopped, swallowing before he lifted the cube as he remembered Jazz's addition to his cube.

"Why not?"

Prowl finally turned back to Jazz. "I'm tone deaf," he said simply. This time, he held Jazz's gaze. "My audials have never been properly tuned to differentiate between the keys and tones that comprise the musical range. My audial circuits are used for information processing. Music was… never necessary." Prowl trailed off with a small shrug.

Jazz stared, not bothering to hide his shocked and slightly disturbed expression. "Well… no, music ain't never _necessary_, Prowl," he drawled slowly. "But it's… slag, it's life. It's livin.' It's… emotions and power and feelin.' It's how mechs can express themselves, even if they are just listening!"

Prowl shrugged, and distantly, Jazz realized that Prowl was still staring at him and hadn't looked away. "I wouldn't know."

Frowning, Jazz set down his cube and reached across the divide between them, resting his hands on the bar top before Prowl. "Look, it's not all about musical notes. There's beats too, an' you don' have to hear those. You can feel 'em." Jazz began a soft drumming pattern, beating his hands against the bar top, drumming out a basic rhythm for Prowl. "Hear it? It's motion an' music, but not notes. Now, change it up-" Jazz sped his hands up, shifting the pattern to a faster, wild tempo. "And your mood changes. Slow it down…" Again, Jazz slowed his pace, and his expression turned soft, almost sensual. "And somethin' totally different. See?"

Prowl was staring, optics bright and overly wide as he leaned well away from Jazz, nearly half off his stool. He nodded once, jerking his helm, and his gaze darted from Jazz's face to his hands and back again. "Why are you talking to me?" Prowl finally asked, incredulity straining his voice.

Jazz grimaced, but forced it to turn to a smile as he dragged himself back to his own stool. "Here, let's drink!" he said, grabbing for his cube. This wasn't going at all how he planned. "To new friends!" He clinked his cube against Prowl's, maneuvering into Prowl's tense and nervous hover before taking another healthy swig of his fuel.

Prowl, being polite, smiled weakly and followed suit. He wouldn't refuse the gesture.

The first taste of the powerful fuel against Prowl's glossa and the feel of the electricity burning its way down his throat and lines sent Prowl into a spasm of coughs and violent hacking. He dropped his cube to the bar, pushing it away as he tried to choke off the powerful fuel on its slow burn down to his internals. Jazz reached out, nearly touching him in pretend comfort, but Prowl waved him off with an unsteady arm.

Finally, after he was through hacking out his vocalizer and his vents, Prowl stood shakily. "Thank you, Sol," he choked out, his voice rough. "I'm leaving. I'm going… to go…. It was… a pleasure meeting you," he lied.

"Wait-" Jazz tried, standing after Prowl.

"Have a good time in Iacon," Prowl said, slipping backward into the crowd. "You'll meet plenty of mechs, I'm sure." His gaze darted around once again, and with a painful smile of apology for everything that Prowl was, he slipped backward into the mess of mechs and disappeared. Jazz, springing from his barstool to try to chase him down, lost the smaller doorwinger amongst the crush of mechs that had begun flooding in for the late cycle entertainment. Prowl, he realized with a sinking feeling, was gone, and he'd accomplished nothing at all.

Jazz frowned, his mood turning sour, and collapsed back into his bar stool. Prowl's cube sat untouched on the bar top, holding the majority of his Seeker fuel. Jazz snatched it, dragging it close, and slammed back the full measure of the cube in one long swallow.

* * *

><p>Prowl sighed heavily, letting his helm fall back as his shoulders slumped. He hadn't been able to initiate recharge the night before at all. Thoughts of Sol, the dark, mysterious mech who had deigned to talk to him at the bar clouded his circuits for half the offcycle. His routine of calm normality had been shattered, and Prowl was still trying to puzzle through just why the mech, who could have spoken to any one, <em>had<em> any one, had chosen to sit next to Prowl. It was a new, entirely-foreign experience.

To compound his feelings of exhaustion, the morning at the Council had been near-frantically busy. Senator Emberwire was trying to bridge back-channel communications with the Senators of the Southern city states that were still hoping for a political resolution. Everything the Senator was doing, though, was highly classified, and he relied on Prowl to ensure everything was in order. Comms channels, protocols, back-channel meetings, sensitive communiqués and discrete messages brokered through the various offices and attaches that Prowl had worked with for years were consuming his workday.

Now though, it was the midcycle break, and Prowl had escaped the confines of the Chambers for the Central Gardens. The sculptures and natural growths of metallic spires were spread out amidst small fountains and streams of trickling ionized water. The flowing water chilled the air, and the landscape was serene enough to tease the few wild petrorabbits, turbohawks, and motormoles out of hiding to lap at the water's edge. Prowl brought iron filings with him to scatter for the wildlife whenever he escaped from the Chambers. A small smile finally broke over his tired faceplates as a family of turbohawks swept down from their perch to pluck at the filings.

For the moment, all the stress of the day, and from the night before, vanished.

"Well, well, well," A cheery voice called from behind the sculptures sheltering Prowl from the bulk of the gardens. "Look who I happen t' run into!" Jazz's rich tones flowed warmly as he stepped around the sculptures, revealing himself with a sly grin.

Prowl froze, his optics widening. He'd fervently hoped to never, ever see this mech again. He was too much, and Prowl didn't know how to deal with that kind of vibrancy. His doorwings flew upwards, peaking behind his backplates.

Jazz slid closer to Prowl, relaxation and ease spilling from his deceptively happy saunter. "How's 'aiding' going today?"

"What are you doing here?"

Shrugging, Jazz leaned up against the sculpture, watching the turbohawks finish off Prowl's iron filings. "It's recommended on the list of sights to see for new visitors to Iacon."

Prowl's doorwings fluttered as his hands flexed and clenched. He tried to ignore Jazz's presence, but the anxiety continued to build within him. This mech was a disturbance to his routine, an unasked for interruption, and the cascades of emotional flashes, the unasked for fleeting feelings that sparked from deep within, questions abounding, were most undesired. Why him? Why now? What was this? Was this what it was like to have another mech interested in? If it was… Prowl wasn't sure he wanted anything to do with this unease, the uncomfortable fluttering deep within his tank.

He shook his helm, turning smartly. "I have to go back to work." He still had almost a joor left on his break, but he'd rather get back to work than spend time with this mech any longer. Prowl tried to move away, trying to escape.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" Jazz pushed himself off the sculpture, jogging to catch up with Prowl. "Did I do somethin' wrong here? What's up?" He frowned, confused by his target's behaviors. His mission was growing complicated.

"We have no reason to associate," Prowl replied, fumbling over his words as he refused to look at Jazz. "We have nothing in common and there is no reason for you to find anything about me interesting in any way."

"I'm just trying to get to know you!" Jazz sighed. "You can be frustrating, ya know."

"Then you won't have any problem letting go of your desire to associate if I am so frustrating." Prowl slipped past Jazz, edging his way around him. He practically ran back toward the Chambers, his doorwings held high and spread wide.

"Primus…" Jazz heaved a heavy sigh as his helm tilted backwards in defeat. Prowl was determined to be difficult. This would require unorthodox methods and a great deal of improvisation. He glared after Prowl, then jogged to catch up with him again. Jazz reached out, trying to grab for Prowl's elbow to get his attention.

At one touch, the barest hint of plating upon plating, of electrical fields crackling and snapping against each other, _everything_ changed.

The power was overwhelming, jolting through both of their frames with the clap of a thunderbolt, reverberating with a physical slap of vibrant energy. Electricity burst forth, screaming across their circuits straight to their sparks, shattering all controls and cracking every emotional protection walled around their core selves. The raw essence of the _other_ crawled across the insides of their being, worming down deep, past their plating, deeper than their lines, all the way into the substance of their souls. It was alien, foreign, dangerous, and completely, utterly world-shattering.

Prowl jumped back, shock writ plain over his faceplates. He gasped, his doorwings flaring as his optics flashed white-hot. "What was that?" he yelped, fear lining his small shout.

Jazz reacted with his instincts, dropping instantly into a combat stance and forcing himself to separate from the oh-so-impossibly-perfect feeling of touching Prowl's plating. Jazz's spark wrenched as he tore himself away, but his processor ruthlessly shut down against his wildly cascading emotions. Coldness took over, an icy efficiency drenching his suddenly hot systems. "What did you do?" Jazz hissed, his visor darkening as he stared Prowl down. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Prowl gasped, backing away, wide optic'd. "What was that? What _happened_?"

Jazz's antivirus programs were kicking into high gear and his firewalls were running full perimeter sweeps for any breach or attempt to hack his systems. His vents deepened, a curl of rage peeking through his cover. "Did you try to download something into me?" Jazz stalked forward, pressing Prowl back against the bank of sculptures on their path out of the gardens. "Did you try to hack me? What did you _do_? What did you _just_ do?" His voice dropped lower, growling grave and vicious. Jazz _knew_ that beneath Prowl's veneer of shyness lay a calculating monster, one capable of defying and betraying everyone and everything.

"I didn't do anything!" Prowl protested, his gaze now fearful as he took in the sweeping change that had come over Jazz. "_You_ touched _me_! What did you do to me?" He continued to back up until he hit the sweeping tritium sculptures behind him with a harsh clang. His doorwings dropped down protectively, scrapping against the polished metal curves.

"What did you do…" Jazz growled, drawing himself as close as he dared to Prowl's body. His scans continued to click over, sweeping every system, and he pulled himself up to his full height, looking down upon the fearful doorwinger before him. His lip curled upwards in a dangerous sneer, and Prowl winced, turning his helm away as he offlined his optics.

The effect would have been more dangerous if Jazz hadn't let loose a breathy exhale, unable to hold back his body's raw pull of need toward Prowl. He could feel his spark screaming to be free, jerking and spasming within his chest cavity, begging and pleading for the one mech right before him.

It was madness, absolute folly, and Jazz had never, ever felt anything of the sort ever before. Sparks and all sorts of spark-love were myth,_ legend_, and only the cold facts of reality were what was left for a mech at the end of the cycle. This _had_ to be a distraction, and Jazz didn't much care for it at all.

All at once he pulled away, transforming down into his alt mode before screaming out of the gardens at full speed. His engine burned, raw power throttling through his being, but nothing matched the aching rend that opened within his spark chamber.

It took all of his being to not turn back around and return to Prowl, but Jazz forced himself to keep driving, watching the tick down of his virus and systems scanners as he blazed a burning trail straight out of Iacon.

* * *

><p>Things were not going well at the Council.<p>

The Senators and political personnel Prowl and Senator Emberwire were trying to reach out to for back channel negotiations were getting extreme and opposing pressure from the other side as well. Insurgent attacks were increasing in all the cities in the Southern hemisphere, striking against the Autobot forces occupying against the uprisings. Attacks were violent, the insurgents growing bold and striking against the Autobot soldiers with dramatic shows of ferocious display, and the Autobot forces responded in kind, viciously cracking down on entire sections of the population. The pressures of the population were skyrocketing, and angry rioters and shouts of fierce rage echoed through the halls of the Council Chamber in Iacon and in the local political offices of the besieged city-states. Despite the few valiant attempts to reach out and broker negotiations across the bitter divide, each cycle that passed seemed to grow ever more grim and futilely hopeless. Prowl's own feelings on the matter were deeply conflicted, and he and his Senator had spent long hours debating over the fractious contentions tearing through the Chamber, their hemisphere, and the planet itself.

They were trying, though, and Prowl spent long hours plotting and devising the different political strategies they could undertake, depending on which side they eventually ended up joining. As neutrals, they currently were operating with both sides, and keeping each side in the dark about that little fact was absolutely paramount. Prowl's day consisted of much subterfuge and cover up, followed by then trying to uncover all the deception to figure out the actual truth. He felt most Praxian then in those moments, and it brought a wry smile to his face. Praxus lay south of the planetary equator, and had politically shifted over the megavorns in affiliation between the Northern and Southern political powerhouses of Iacon and Vos. Both developing sides of the brewing storm wanted Praxus to side with them. More numbers meant more legitimacy and more force for change. Thus far, the extreme violence of the Southern hemisphere had spared Praxus from the brunt of the destruction, but politically, Praxus was being shredded in two. No two mechs seemed to agree on anything any longer, and Prowl's days were overrun with angry arguments and bitter entreaties for negotiations flying across the back channel comms.

He buried his helm in his hands as he slumped over his desk, letting out a loud, tired sigh. The late cycle had grown long, and the summer sunlight stretched out in burnt golden shades across the setting surface of the planet, prismatically striking against the metallic reflective surfaces of Iacon's cityscape before refracting up into the windows on Prowl's high-level office. There were moments when he could look outside and see utter normalcy, the parade of life and the natural world of Cybertron rolling forward despite all the frenzied craziness of the world's mechs.

Unfortunately, Prowl couldn't put it all out of his processor and the fear gnawed at his internals with increasingly dark worry. Adding to his frustrations, and to the ever increasing complications of his life, were the ceaseless, unrepentant, spark-deep thoughts and yearnings for the mech he had met and touched in the Gardens. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for the simple profundity of the complete and total rush of his spark's perfect contentment in that fraction of an astrosecond. He couldn't explain it, and he couldn't even try. It was merely one more thing that rested heavy on his processor, and his thoughts flashed between the struggles of the planet, the insurgent attacks, their steadily more difficult attempts to reach out in negotiation to Praxus' neighbors, and every single painfully shy and difficult moment spent with the mech he knew as Sol.

Every offcycle that orn, after he finally managed to extricate himself from the Council, Prowl would return to the bar where he had met Sol, sitting in his usual perch for joors, far longer than he ever normally stayed for a simple drink. The stool beside him remained empty though, and the bustle of the bar's patrons continued around him undisturbed, his presence and the turbid confluence of his thoughts entirely uncared about. He was hoping, and using the furthest stretch of logic he possibly could, that Sol would return and he'd get a chance for some answers… or simply another moment of that perfect, singular feeling that was consuming his entire being.

The mysterious mech who made Prowl's world suddenly spin wildly off its axis hadn't shown his faceplates since their connection in the Gardens, though. Prowl's hope was fading, his fears and worries increasing, and once more, a quiet understanding deep within was unfolding, an understanding of his deep personal failings and the lack of worth that he was. How could he offer anything to such a mech, anything of fun or value or happiness in life? No matter how particularly profound it had felt, Prowl was certain that he was entirely incapable of being anything special for any mech.

That didn't stop him from returning to the bar, though, and as he slinked out of the Council Chambers and made his way to the downtown oil bar, Prowl knew he had to at least try to find him again. His spark wouldn't let him stop. The summer heat was burning down onto his plating, and though the sun had set, shimmers of heat mirages wafted from the planet's surface along the far stretches of the city's roads.

Unseen at the back of the bar, Jazz hunkered down in the shadows, purposely standing far and away, hidden out of sight. He'd been following Prowl since the moment he'd returned to Iacon, full of disturbing intel and far more calamitous emotions. He had never, not _once_, felt anything close to what he had felt when he'd touched Prowl, and his first instinct had been one of danger and of harm. He'd reacted near violently, lashing out in self defense, and a bitter, dark corner of his spark whispered to him that that was a sign of how far he had fallen from his fellow normal Cybertronians. He couldn't even feel a pleasant feeling without believing it was a hack, an enemy infiltration and distraction.

But then again, that was no mere pleasant feeling, no mere flaring of an energy field. That had penetrated his very soul, striking deep into the core of his spark, shaking and quaking the foundation of his self. He'd felt a magnetic pull toward Prowl, his spark's need to be intimately close to Prowl's, as if it knew secrets that Jazz did not and the only way to unlock this secret part of his life and soul was to never, ever leave Prowl's side.

Those thoughts were ridiculous though. Prowl was a target, an enemy, and now, a proven insurgent. Jazz had fled Iacon, returning to Orion Pax's Column to recover his mind and to perform a far more detailed scan and scrub of his systems, but when he'd arrived, a grim Orion Pax met Jazz with confirmatory information on Prowl's espionage activities against the Autobots and the Council itself. Mechs in Praxus, influential businessmechs and the heads of institutions, mechs who had risked themselves with taking public positions in the tumultuous hotbed of the insurrection, had vanished. Militia leaders and lines of Autobot supplies and communications protocols had been hacked with information sent from Iacon. Soldiers had disappeared, sometimes violently, and each mystery was tied in some way to Prowl's Council Chambers office. A new segment of coded communiqués had been uncovered, unraveled from a sophisticated embedded data coil as it snaked out secret information to multiple contacts all over the martial-law-enforced, insurgency-ravaged Southern hemisphere.

Autobot Intelligence had known that someone in the Council Chambers had been smuggling intelligence out, and Prowl had quickly been keyed as the mech responsible. Without hard proof, however, any accusation could become a flash point of rage, especially since the Praxus city-state was still teetering on the edge of allegiance and any action taken against a Praxian by the Autobots, especially with a charge of treason and espionage, could be the one counterweight to turn the insurrection into a full-spread civil war. Now, they had solid proof, and as they decrypted the rest of the newly discovered data coil, Orion Pax was hoping to discover exactly what Prowl had been communicating to the insurgents and where their people and information had vanished to.

Of course, that didn't take away the very public and ugly problem of charging and arresting a Praxian legislative aide. It would be far more agreeable for Prowl to suffer an untimely accident, one perhaps tragic, and that was what Jazz specialized in. Untimely tragic accidents.

Jazz was beginning to have the sinking feeling that the true accident here was him. He couldn't take his optics off of Prowl, sitting at the bar alone, his doorwings slowly slumping downward, and Jazz's entire being was consumed with disparate, warring emotions. He was a civil war unto himself, his spark divided in bitter feeling. Part of him was furiously angry, his natural allegiance to the Autobots and his own Northern home winning over his knowledge of Prowl's traitorous, hideous actions. A deeper part, also spark-deep but far more primitive, more raw, more carnal in feeling and emotion, screamed out to _go_ to Prowl, to be near him, to be drawn closer. That part won over the parts of his processor that screamed rationalizations, justifications, and one, tiny, terrible piece of his conscience that asked, _"What if Prowl's right?"_ What if Jazz was on the wrong side?

Jazz wanted to rip out his processor, banish all his doubts. He wanted to tear out his spark, return to the cold efficiency he had operated with for so long. The world had been black and white, but now, with just one touch, the world was suddenly all blackness, save for one shining, brilliantly white flash point: _Prowl._

Prowl, for the first time in his entire life, asked for a second drink. He slid the empty first cube across the bar top disparagingly, his doorwings dropping ever lower. All his life, he had pushed and pushed away, and then pushed some more, and when he finally _wanted_ something, he had already done a fabulous job of creating such a mess that the actualization was impossible. He supposed that was what he excelled at in life, turning simple things into complex things. Funny, though; logical thought was supposed to be his salvation from all of that. Still, no matter what he did, where he turned, pieces of Prowl's world were coming apart. He hefted his second cube and downed a long swallow of the higher-refined energon. The buzz in his lines was an unwelcome reminder of the Gardens. He rubbed his elbow, the uninvited memory playing forth once more.

When Prowl finally stumbled out of the bar, his thoughts were so clouded, his emotions so dour and depressed, that he didn't notice he was being followed.

Jazz, watching Prowl like a keen turbohawk on the hunt, did. He swore, watching the two bruise-sized mechs follow Prowl out of the bar with sly, twisted grins on their faces. Prowl wore his Praxian heritage and upper-class prestige unconsciously as part of his identity, and it had never occurred to him before, when he would leave before the nastier, grittier elements of the off cycle would emerge for their nightly rituals, to protect himself by changing himself. However, as he walked back to his flat in the middle of the off cycle, the denizens of the criminal world took notice of his refined features, his crisp paint, and his impeccable Council Chambers' identification.

Prowl hadn't gone more than a breem from the bar, halfway to his flat, when the bruisers rushed him from behind. Prowl was stunned, shocked from his maudlin processor's wanderings, and he cried out in shock as he was thrown against the side of a building. Hands restrained him as another pair wandered over his body, searching for hidden places and packets to conceal important documents, credits, or backdoor medical access to his subspace. Prowl jerked, trying for freedom, but he was small compared to the two, and they easily restrained him with flashing, dark optics and husky laughs, twisting his arms against the metal framework. Prowl's doorwings flared with pain and he gritted his denta as he grunted and struggled against their restraint.

The bruisers were frustrated by the time they realized that for all of Prowl's refinement, he carried very little on him in the way of value. He was a waste of their time, and neither of them appreciated that. The uglier of the two – debatable - reared back, preparing to strike Prowl with a vicious blow as the other mech kept a fierce, tight hold on Prowl's arms as one hand began twisting a delicate doorwing.

Silent laser shots streaked through the night streets, grazing just past their cheek arches. Both mechs cried out in pain, whirling around in defiance, but the shooter remained obscure and hidden. Another series of shots flared out silently, slicing into the backs of the hands that still grabbed Prowl in a terrible body hold. Howling in pain, the bruiser dropped Prowl's doorwings, and the two transformed to make their escape without another moment lost.

Prowl huddled on the street, breathing heavily as his doorwings trembled. His optics darted around, peering into the darkness. He had no idea who had saved him, but he figured it wasn't an Enforcer. They wouldn't slink about in the darkness, hiding from the bruisers and letting them get away. Prowl squinted, the heat still shimmering from the pavement, trying to see.

Jazz crept forward, hugging the shadows, his small laser pistol fixed with an electrical silencer still ready in his hands. His optics fixed to Prowl's body, searching for damage. Aside from the trembling doorwings, Jazz saw none, but had he not acted, that would have been quiet different. Why, _why_ had he attacked Prowl's attackers? Why had he defended him? That was Jazz's perfect opportunity to let Prowl go, to allow the traitor to slip away and let the messy business of his dispatch fall into another mech's hands. His spark, however, would not allow it, and still, despite the twisting of Jazz's mouth, the angry, frustrated facial gymnastics crossing his features, Jazz still crept forward to check on Prowl.

Prowl's doorwings flicked upward. "Hello?" he called out. "Are you there?" He could hear the faintest shuffles of a mech's feet, trying to be silent, in the sensor space between his wings.

Cursing, Jazz shook his helm, then stepped out of the shadows and into the dim street light. Their gazes met, optics locking together, and Jazz saw Prowl's entire body stiffen in shock and surprise. He wondered if Prowl felt the same thrill explode from his spark at the simple meeting of their optics.

Jazz moved forward, his laser pistol still held low, and he crouched down next to the wide optic'd and motionless Prowl, stock still on hands and knees on the summer-hot pavement. "Are you alright?" Jazz asked, his voice hoarse from the conflict within his spark and processor.

Prowl inhaled shakily and nodded, his helm jerking up and down. "Did you shoot those mechs?"

"Yes." Jazz didn't mince his words, and he reached out with one hand to help Prowl to his feet. His hand came to rest on Prowl's upper arm, and at one touch, that oh-so-longed-for electrical surge of soul-deep perfection flared to life once more. It spread from his fingertips, sliding up his arm both within and without, and warmth bloomed outward from his spark, the alien feeling of contentment spreading through his being with honeyed, perfect lassitude. He couldn't help himself, and as Jazz helped Prowl to his feet, his breath jerked out of his vents in ragged gasps of raw pleasure.

Prowl's optics burned white-bright and he moaned aloud, the same feelings coursing through his being. His optics roamed over Jazz's body, hazy. Finally, his gaze fixed to the laser pistol still held in Jazz's free hand, and Prowl's optics cleared as he frowned. "You're not a musician," he whispered.

"I said I was a songwriter," Jazz whispered back, his fingers betraying him as he stroked down Prowl's plating, tenderly fingering the crook of his elbow as his vents gasped for raspy breaths. His spark was sparking, shots of perfection raining through his being.

"You're not that either," Prowl whispered, his optics rising to meet Jazz's. "Who _are _you? What's going on?"

A low moan escaped from Jazz's throat, and he fought for only an astrosecond against everything of his being. It was futile though, and Jazz pushed backwards, steering Prowl toward the side of the building he'd just been thrown up against, backing him up slowly until he was flush, his doorwings spread wide and vibrating off the surface of the structure. Prowl's helm titled back at the impact and he seemed to melt against the wall behind him, breathing heavily.

Jazz stared at the lines of his throat, the softly heaving tubules of air and fluid coursing through Prowl's body. He knew just which ones to sever to make Prowl's death painless and quick, and simultaneously imagined leaning down, suckling on each of them, licking a slow path up Prowl's body as energy coursed across their circuits and burned together.

"Who are you?" Jazz whispered, tearing his optics away from Prowl's delicate, deliciously tempting throat. "Who the _frag_ are you?"

"I'm-I'm just a mech," Prowl stammered, his own body heating uncontrollably. The sweltering summer heat was cool against his plating.

"But…. _Why_?" Jazz pushed out through gritted teeth. His hand, gripping the pistol, rose to Prowl's hip, and his fingers brushed against Prowl's plating, almost, nearly, holding him close. The urge to _feel_, to connect, to join with Prowl was intoxicating, and Jazz was having a hard time fighting it. Why did it have to be this way? Why was _this_ one mech, the only mech he'd ever met that had any impact upon his spark, one of the handful of mechs he'd have to destroy? Why was Prowl, so hateful in his actions, the _one_ mech Jazz yearned for with all of his spark? Why was Prowl doing these things? _Why_ was Prowl a traitor?

"I…. don't know…" Prowl breathed, barely speaking. He hadn't a clue what was going on between them, but he knew he never, ever wanted it to end. He sighed, pushing his hip wantonly into Jazz's touch, a simple guttural grunt escaping his lips.

Jazz offlined his optics. "What do you think about this insurgency, Prowl? What do you think about the rebellion?"

Stumbling, Prowl frowned back at Jazz, confused. The moment, the perfect clarity of the moment, was broken for an instant, and his wariness began to creep back. Everything he did for the Senator was classified, and he had never broken that oath he'd made to serve him faithfully and loyally in everything he did.

"Please, _please, _Prowl. It's important. What do you think? Where do you stand?" Jazz's visor flashed, burning into Prowl's gaze.

Prowl shook his helm. What was this, a ploy designed to pull information from him? Was he had? Was this a plot by the enemies, or another faction from the rebellion trying to gather intelligence on his Senator's action and negotiations? All at once, Prowl felt unsafe, desperate to escape, and penned in all around. He struggled, trying to get away.

Jazz's grip was tough, however, and Prowl was pushed back against the building, the touches at his elbow and hip no longer comforting, but restraining. "I need to know," Jazz growled. "I _have_ to."

"I can't!" Prowl gasped, twisting his helm to stare up at Jazz. "I work for a Senator and I can't share information!" He shook his helm, pleading. "I _can't_…."

"I don't care about the Senator," Jazz breathed, stepping flush to Prowl's body. Every inch of their plating joined together, and the _burn_, the _need_, the desire to unite flashed nova-strong throughout both their beings. "I have to know about _you_," Jazz grunted through gritted denta.

Shuddering and gasping at the feel of Jazz's body on top of his own, Prowl's optics offlined. The words were on his lips, entreaties to his beliefs and declarations of his rooted stance amidst a rootless world, but some modicum of control bitterly clung to his processor. He moaned, nearly sobbing, and his hands reached for Jazz's forearms, trying to feel more of his touch, more of his soul. "I'm sorry," Prowl whispered. "I can't. I _can't_…" Prowl pleaded with Jazz, trying to get him to understand.

Groaning, a frustrated growl tearing from his throat, Jazz lunged, burying his face in the crook of Prowl's neck. His glossa snaked out, lapping at Prowl's cables and stroking over the tantalizing features he'd dreamed about in recharge as he inhaled Prowl's perfectly unique scent. Prowl screamed in surprise, breathless and ragged, then went limp as his knees buckled and the pleasure tore through his body unchecked. Jazz growled again, turning his helm upward, and he mouthed along Prowl's jawline before suckling at the juncture of his helm and neck, just below his rounded audial. One of Prowl's hands flew to the back of Jazz's helm, trying to hold him there as his hips sought to connect to Jazz's, seeking to grind against one another.

It took everything in Jazz to tear himself back. He pulled away, disappearing into the shadows of the summer night and leaving Prowl, his desire, and the feeling of his spark once more tearing itself from his very being, behind.

* * *

><p>Prowl spent a rechargeless off cycle tossing and turning futilely, his systems running hot and bothered. He'd opened his windows, and the oppressive heat of the summer night made its way into his flat, cool against his burning frame. His thoughts were consumed with the mech he'd met, and though he knew he should be worried about a thousand other things, all Prowl could worry over was when he'd get to see him again.<p>

The on cycle found Prowl, looking like an overcharged pile of scrap metal, dragging himself into the Council Chambers and to his office on the 30th floor of their tower. If he couldn't recharge, then he might as well work, and he trudged into his office with his doorwings dropping low, nearly flat on his back.

"Problem detected," a monotone voice droned at Prowl the astrosecond he entered his office. Not expecting anyone else that early, Prowl's helm whipped up in shock.

"Soundwave," he gasped. "I didn't expect you to be here." He inhaled shakily, then crossed over to his desk. Soundwave sat behind it, working at Prowl's terminal. "What's the problem?" Prowl asked, confused.

Soundwave tapped out a few commands on the terminal, then rotated the screen for Prowl to see. "Energon farmers in 16 districts refuse to supply Iacon with necessary replenishments. Stated reason: occupation of Southern hemisphere dangerous precedent."

Prowl sighed heavily, all the air whooshing from his vents in a heavy rush. "They're rerouting their supplies down to the blockade." Prowl's optics scanned the raw intelligence report Soundwave displayed. "The army is going to have to fight _farmers_. Farmers who are trying to deliver energon to starving mechs." Reports of a shortage of supplies behind the blockade as a result of the implementation of martial law had made sensational headlines around the planet. Prowl looked up. "This will not go over well at all…"

Soundwave's visor flashed, a raw crimson light burning from deep within. "Indeed," he drawled slowly. "Potentially disastrous to the Northern front."

Sighing, Prowl nodded. "Disastrous is an understatement," he whispered. "Has your Senator seen this?" Soundwave shook his helm. Senator Ratbat hadn't reported to the Chambers that cycle yet. Prowl nodded, reaching out to banish the file to a separate pad. "I'll deliver this to Senator Emberwire personally. We should try to make preparations, let mechs know, see what we can do." Prowl met Soundwave's gaze. "I'm getting thoroughly exhausted of this."

"It will end soon," Soundwave droned, standing.

"I hope so," Prowl whispered, tapping the pad against the desktop.

Silence filled the office, broken only by Soundwave's heavy steps as he made his way to the doorway.

"Soundwave," Prowl called out, questioning. "The world may be falling apart, but can't the tech department fix the computer terminal in your office?"

Soundwave's visor flashed. "One would think," he quipped before twisting out of Prowl's office.

* * *

><p>It was all over the news wires by the midday, the farmers' declaration of solidarity with the South. Energon prices skyrocketed, and the market reacted with deep unease, businessmechs selling off their shares in nearly everything in order to stockpile their accounts with credits. By days end, the problem of a public relations disaster involving simple farmer mechs with electron hoes and pickwires faded against the mass panic of a planet-wide economic meltdown. The businessmechs' fears boiled down to the civilian mechs, and screams of fear drove the mechs to their account holders and bank holdings, where they withdrew as much credit as they themselves could, preparing for the worst. In only six joors, over a hundred private accounting holdings folded and went bankrupt.<p>

The news did not add to the general mood of the planet. Enforcers hit the streets of Iacon in droves, sirens whizzing through the blocks in shows of force. Guards were posted on every corner, and deep unease mixed with tense fear settled around every mech's spark. There was talk of rationing in the days to come, and bitter anger followed on the heels of each new rumor. Angry crowds built outside the Council Chambers.

It was near the end of the cycle when the first reports came of the massive explosion tearing Kaon in two. No one believed it at first; rumor and reports of mass disaster were common in the beleaguered South, and exaggeration was even more common from the people under the Autobot's martial law. However, when Megatron himself, commander of the Autobot Occupation Force, appeared in a desperate holomessage on the floor of the Council Chambers, flickering in and out of focus and asking for immediate aide, everyone took notice.

A mineshaft had exploded and collapsed, the gasses and ores igniting deep below the city before bursting outward at every access junction. Miles and miles of the underground were burning, and the surface of the city was weakening and threatening to collapse into the fiery chasms below. Immediate aide was requested, Megatron beseeching the Council to send the bulk of the remaining Autobot Army, already stretched thin in the North, down to the South and to Kaon to help.

After several hours of debate, the orders were cut and the Army was on the move.

Prowl and Soundwave watched from the recessed mezzanine as the Senators debated loudly amongst themselves, arguing over the threats of leaving the North unprotected and the responsibility they had to the citizens of their planet, no matter how much those citizens in the South and in Kaon wished to be independent of their reach. Basic spark-charity ruled the day, however, and those of a more practical mindset were quickly outvoted.

Prowl shared a conflicted look with Soundwave.

If Prowl could be said to have one friend, Soundwave would be it. The two shared a passion for pragmatics and a love of logic, and they slowly had built a bond of friendship and shared information as they worked together in the halls of the Council. One of Prowl's simple pleasures in life was his friendship with Soundwave, and he cherished their bond spark-deep.

Still, Prowl didn't speak of the other worry still bearing down relentlessly on his processor. Who was this mech who was affecting his spark so? Who was this mech who was rending his world apart? Why was he _here_, and why _now_? Prowl couldn't ignore the near incredulous coincidences between the timing of this mech appearing within his life and the increasingly convoluted nature of the insurgency. The mech, Sol, had asked questions about the rebellion, in fact, and Prowl's concern for the safety of his role, his information, and the entirely of the extremely delicate political balancing act he was in the middle of weighed heavy on his mind. Still, he couldn't banish the sheer physicality of his attraction to the mech, nor the soul-shifting way his being screamed to be united with him. What was happening? Was any of it _real_?

By the time he finally escaped the Council Chambers, it was well past the start of the off cycle, and the Enforcers had enacted a strict curfew. All bars were closed, the streets swept clean of the raucous, rough elements that thrived in the darkness. Enforcer sirens illuminated every street corner, and Prowl was personally escorted home by two mechs in heavy external armor. Prowl wondered where Sol had ended up for the night and whether or not he was safe. Then again, he didn't know if anyone was safe any longer.

Distantly, an electrical storm was brewing, the chaotic clouds sparking with turbulent, raw electricity, and it was only a matter of time before the storm broke out over the entire city. It was an ominous night, and Prowl watched the skies with a painful sort of finality.

As Prowl trudged up to his simple flat, one of several hundred tucked into a tower on the southern side of the city, Jazz hid out of sight in the darkness, watching. He tucked himself behind the stairwell, and the first flash of lightning briefly lit up his hiding place, casting criss-crossed lines of shadows across his features. The humidity rose steadily, climbing in anticipation of the release, and Jazz could feel the thrum of the planet's power readying for a reckoning. His hands clenched into fists at his side, and when he first caught sight of Prowl about to enter his flat, his spark sputtered within his chest, nearly guttering as a part of him wanted to weaken.

But no, _this_ was the time. He had wasted too much time, cut off too many avenues that he should have taken, and now, he had to act. Autobot Headquarters was asking why Prowl wasn't already terminated, and Jazz had no suitable answer to give them. He had plenty of opportunities and it was only his own tumultuous emotions and his own terrible weakness on the matter that had stilled his hand. How could he terminate the one thing his spark had ever yearned for?

It didn't matter what his spark wanted, and Jazz was partly disgusted with himself for lusting so strongly after a traitor. What did that say about him, about the strength of his will and spark? Too many questions, too many problems, all raised by this _one_ mech, this _Prowl_. He had to go.

Jazz strove forward, slipping from his hiding place as he quickly moved behind Prowl. Prowl's doorwings hitched when he was halfway there, and Jazz knew he had been spotted. He broke into a run, rushing Prowl from behind as Prowl began to turn. The Enforcers that had escorted him to his tower had left him behind at the entrance, and it was only Prowl and Jazz all alone outside his flat.

Prowl's optics flashed as he turned and saw Jazz tearing toward him.

Jazz crashed into him, wrapping his body up within his arms before slamming them both against the wall. The explosion from his spark, so completely destabilizing, flared once more, physically wrenching a tiny gasp and a grunt from Jazz's vocalizer. Prowl shuddered in his arms, his hand flying up around Jazz's body, and the two ended up grasping onto each other in a fierce bear hug, plating scrapping and rubbing together hotly as Jazz bore Prowl against the wall.

He'd come to terminate Prowl, but one touch, and everything changed. The intoxication of Prowl flowed through his being, shorting every circuit, and his spark unleashed the full force of its desire. Jazz was helpless against his soul, and he capitulated. His helm turned, nuzzling against Prowl's plating, and with the slowness of a heated summer dream, their optics seized to one another as their lips slowly closed the distance in their first, tender kiss.

A clap of lightning tore through the sky as their lips met, but neither heard the rumble of the explosive thunder, nor felt the cascade of the acid rain begin to pour downward in sheets from above. The world contracted to the two of them, sealing the meaning to life in the junction of their bodies. Lips moved against one another, slow explorations of emotions and desire playing out in tender caresses, and their hands moved in counterpart over each other's bodies, trying to map every part, every feature. No thought remained, only the pull of their sparks, and neither mech could stand against that.

Prowl had already unlocked his door, and Jazz maneuvered them through the doorway and into his flat without breaking the kiss. Prowl dropped his data pads, uncaring of anything, and grasped Jazz's face within his hands, his fingers caressing his dermal plating just beneath his visor. Jazz gasped, breaking the kiss momentarily, and then dove down to Prowl's neck again, feasting on the long lines of his cables and basking in the scents and tastes of Prowl's body. Prowl threw his helm back, his body vibrating, and moaned aloud as his hands gripped onto Jazz's shoulders.

Another thunderclap, another streak of lightning, and Jazz hefted Prowl's body into his arms, physically carrying him across the small studio flat to the simple berth. Prowl's legs wrapped around Jazz's waist, and he clung tight as Jazz lowered him to his berth. Jazz kissed his way up Prowl's neck and over his audial, mouthing over the sensitive receptor before climbing on top of Prowl's frame. He gently stroked Prowl's doorwings flat, sliding them up the berth surface until they were pointed as high as they could go and Jazz had enough room to brace himself with his hands. Prowl was gasping, nearly incoherent, and he couldn't move his optics, hands, or legs from any part of Jazz.

Kissing continued, glossa sliding together, and then hands stroked over new places, learning all the ways to pull lightning from each other's sparks and frames. Their bodies ground together, and then tentative fingers stroked lower, seeking entry to each other's ports. Finally, a pause broke the storm between them and Prowl stared into Jazz's burning visor, gasping and panting for breath, control, and understanding. "I…." Prowl began, not knowing where his life was heading any longer. "I want this," he whispered. "I want _you_."

"Primus…" Jazz whispered, and the thunder stopped for just a moment, just long enough for them to speak and to kiss softly once more. Then it was fingers on ports, and Prowl gingerly pulled Jazz's interface cable to himself with shaking, trembling hands as Jazz did the same. Neither of them were capable of composure, and they both fumbled as they tried to plug in.

The circuit connection was instantaneous, the power indescribable. Prowl screamed aloud, his vocalizer raw and unchecked as he arched upwards. Jazz gasped, panting, and he collapsed on top of Prowl in a desperate attempt to feel _more_, to connect _more_, to slide within Prowl's own body. Who was this mech, and why did he do these things to Jazz? Why _them_, why _now_, and why were they on opposite sides of the building war?

The only answers were the lightning and the thunderclaps of the raging summer storm, echoing the gasps and moans of their pleasure.

They overloaded together, galloping to the finish, screaming as they plunged off the cliff face in unison, cascading down from the highest high either of them had ever felt.

Afterwards, they lay together, intertwined and still connected, Jazz's helm resting on Prowl's chest as both of their breaths heaved. Humidity clung to both of their frames, hotter and wetter than any storm surge outside.

Prowl's hands stroked over Jazz's backplates, tingles of warm fire trailing after his touches. He'd never felt better… and he'd never felt more scared. "Who are you?" Prowl whispered, his voice hoarse. "Please… I have to know."

Jazz sighed, his optics dimming. Again, he'd stumbled, and this time in the biggest way possible. _How_ could he have interfaced with Prowl? How could he have let his control slip so low? Despite his mistake, his deep professional mistake, Jazz couldn't escape the feeling in his spark, the contented quietness of his soul at rest and at peace.

How that was about to break. Jazz's hands slid up Prowl's sides, and he rose to his knees, sliding upward until he caught Prowl's wrists beneath his kneel, immobilizing him against the berth. Prowl frowned, confused, and stared up at Jazz as Jazz's hands came to rest against his neck and throat. All he needed to do was squeeze, or pull, or tear out the cables he knew by spark and had tasted only a short time before.

"What are you doing?" Prowl whispered, his optics filling with fear.

Jazz couldn't speak, and he shook his helm, his lips shaking. "'M sorry," he mumbled, his vocalizer cracking, just before he leant down, pressing his full weight against his hands and Prowl's throat.

Prowl's optics flared, flashing with panic, and he tried to struggle against Jazz's heavy restraint. Jazz had practice with holding mechs down, though, and he was slightly larger than Prowl was. All of Prowl's struggles were futile, and Jazz could feel the slow ebb of Prowl's racing energon beneath the surging, panicked lines under his grip.

His spark was screaming, tearing itself into tiny pieces, and Jazz was trying to fight the bitter sobs that threatened to spill forth.

The worst was Prowl's optics, and the betrayal, the absolute ravaged pain and the pleading of his optics shattered the remnants of Jazz's control. He reared back, slamming his fist into Prowl's helm and cracking it sideways.

Prowl, dizzy and losing consciousness from the cessation of energon to his processor, flopped uselessly against the impact, falling offline in an astrosecond.

Jazz gasped, one sob bursting forth, and he buried his face against Prowl's chest. He could feel Prowl's spark fluttering beneath the plating, and he_ knew_, he knew with absolute certainty, that he _couldn't_ terminate Prowl. _Damn_ him to the Pit, but he couldn't do it. Not this time.

Jazz struggled off the berth, staggering to his feet, and it was only after his interface cable pulled painfully that he realized he was still connected to Prowl's systems. The pain, the anguish he had felt had been shared, and it wasn't just his own. That horror within his spark, the tearing of his being in two. Primus, Prowl had felt that as well.

Jazz choked back a sob as he unplugged himself from Prowl's systems, and it took everything within him to not press a kiss to Prowl's cold lips. Rage was building within him, rage at himself, at the world, at everything that was happening. Primus, _why_? Why this mech? Why? It would be easier if he could terminate Prowl, be rid of him and this problem.

But he couldn't. Jazz slipped out of Prowl's flat and into the bitter storm, letting the acid rain burn against his plating while the thunder echoed throughout his empty spark chamber.

* * *

><p>Prowl struggled to online the next oncycle, stiff, sore and bruised from Jazz's attacks. The last moments of his consciousness played within his processor, and Prowl gasped as he jumped up, ducking and trying to defend himself. He didn't know where he was, what time it was, or where the mech - who he decided was most definitely not a songwriter and probably not named Sol - was.<p>

Two things belatedly entered his processor as he shivered, his vents coughing and sputtering. First, he was alone, the silence of his flat deafening.

Secondly, Iacon was burning to the ground, smoldering in ruination and nearly devoid of life.

Just outside his window, Prowl could see explosions tear through the city and the Council Chambers were half up in flames. Laser fire peppered through the streets and Seekers streaked contrails across the burning sunrise sky.

Prowl tore out of his flat, racing downtown and to the Chambers.

* * *

><p>The Council floor, the airy debate chamber where generations of laws had been passed and signed, was destroyed, burnt to the ground by the time Prowl finally made it to the Chambers. He'd raced through the warzone that the capital city had turned into, not an Enforcer in sight as mechs tore screaming through the streets. Seekers flew overhead, raining down strafing fire on buildings, groups of mechs, and any individual trying to take a stand against their attack run. There was no army to protect them, and it was only after several blocks that Prowl realized one of the main buildings smoldering and in ruins was the Enforcer's headquarters.<p>

He raced up the smoky tower next to the Council hall, trying to find his Senator, trying to reach Soundwave, trying to do _something_, anything to help. Most of the building was deserted and burned, and scattered pads and debris littered the floors. He tore into his office with heaving vents, his optics darting around fearfully. "Senator!" Prowl bellowed, frantic tones tearing out of his vocalizer. "Senator!"

"Senator Emberwire is terminated," a cold voice droned from within the smoke. A crimson flash caught Prowl's optic, and he turned toward the larger mech striding from the direction of the Senator's adjoining office.

"Soundwave!" Prowl gasped. "What happened? What do you mean the Senator is terminated? We have to call for help! Maybe we can save him!"

"Negative." Soundwave's voice held no room for debate.

Prowl froze, taking in the laser rifle in Soundwave's arms. "Soundwave…" he whispered. "What's going on?"

"Senator Emberwire refused to join us," Soundwave said, his gaze burning into Prowl's. "He was terminated for his refusal."

Prowl's shock and panic transformed to rage, the betrayal of the oncycle and his mystery murdering mech coalescing with the sudden and fierce betrayal of his one friend. "What?" Prowl screamed. "You're one of _them_? You're an _insurgent_?" His voice grew shrill, laced with panic and burning with rage.

"We will remake Cybertron in a stronger, better image. The _revolution_ is at hand," Soundwave ground out, stepping forward. "You _will _join us. You will assist in the conversion of Praxus."

"Never!" Prowl spat bitterly. "You've done this! You've _destroyed_ this city, _murdered_ hundreds! You're _killing_ innocent mechs! You _murdered_ Emberwire!" Prowl heaved, his body shaking. "For _what_?"

"Exterminations are required for the new order to be installed. Only the strong will survive," Soundwave growled, stepping closer to Prowl. "You are strong. You have _one_ chance to join us. _Now_."

Prowl snarled, lunging at Soundwave without finesse. Prowl had never been trained in combat, and it showed in his lack of technique. He raced Soundwave, trying to bash the rifle away, but Soundwave easily kicked him aside and slammed the stock of his rifle in between Prowl's doorwings on his backplates. Prowl fell to the ground, crying out in agony. Soundwave turned, hefting his rifle to fire on Prowl, and Prowl rolled over, staring at his one friend with bitter hatred.

"Do it," Prowl hissed. "Shoot me, you sparkless waste of metal."

Soundwave's visor flared as his fingers trembled on the trigger. "_Fall_ with your city," Soundwave growled. "_Fall_ with your _mechs_." He held his gaze, then turned and strode out of the devastated, destroyed office. Prowl watched him go silently, feeling the entire world around him and within him plunge into chaotic darkness. He fell backward, lying on the floor for a moment, trying to make sense of the entirety of the collapse of the world, and found that he couldn't. He simply couldn't, and he didn't know what to do now. What could one mech do, faced with the destruction of everything? Iacon was gone, the city in ruins, the infrastructure destroyed.

The shrillness of a fire alert tearing through Prowl's floor finally pulled him from his stupor, breaking the fog of his processor. He stumbled to his feet, only instinct propelling him to move forward. He stumbled down from his office, leaving everything of his life behind.

He had no idea where to go.

* * *

><p>Orion Pax's column struggled to respond to every call for aide, and he realized with grim certainty that he could not. Megatron's forces had slaughtered the Autobot army columns that had responded to his fake call for aide for Kaon's populace. Unchecked and undeterred, Megatron had turned his new army against the North, striking first at Iacon and then at the surrounding cities and population centers. Thousands and thousands of mechs were murdered, cities destroyed, and the entire planet was burning in a conflagration of rage and change. The hottest days of summer were ravaging through the Northern hemisphere, and it seemed as if the Pit itself had unleashed upon their world.<p>

Calamity had come to Cybertron.

Orion Pax had lost contact with Sentinel Prime and Autobot Headquarters, and only a few straggling columns and corps were responding to his radio calls for combining forces and making a stand. They were falling back to a rallying point together, out in the wild areas of the Northern highlands. All else, they feared, was irredeemably lost. Orion Pax put out a call on the civilian frequencies, telling those that could make the trek to join them in their shelter. It was the most he could do.

Jazz raced to his column as the first reports of devastation began to scream in and the fires of destruction began tearing through Iacon. The last transmission the cycle prior from Autobot Intelligence had been a mid-off cycle decryption of the last data packet sent through the mole in the Council Chambers. It had been chock full of command codes, activation codes, protection protocols and diagrams to the city's infrastructure, safety systems and backup power sources. It contained everything to devastate Iacon, and it had been the information that had allowed the Seekers to utterly destroy the city in eight breems flat. Orion Pax and Jazz were the last mechs alive who knew of Prowl's role in the destruction, and the hatred that coursed through Orion's being was palpable and bitterly potent. He watched Jazz transform and took a grim amount of satisfaction in knowing that Jazz was about to tell him the traitor was terminated.

Instead, Jazz wouldn't meet his optics. "He got away," Jazz whispered. "I wasn't able to terminate him."

"What?" Orion Pax growled. "He got away?" Jazz nodded, pointedly looking down. "Do you understand that this mech is singly responsible for sending a data packet to Megatron's forces that unlocked Iacon's defenses? That allowed them to slip through to our capital and destroy everything? That he is responsible for the expansion of this revolution? He has supported and bolstered Megatron as they built their base of power, right under our optics!" Orion Pax slammed his data pad down, the rage within him finally exploding outward. "He sent this _last_ off cycle. How could you lose him last off cycle?"

Jazz's helm whipped around, his wince at Orion's words vanishing in an instant. "He sent it last off cycle?" Jazz whispered. "_When_? When did he send it?"

"Just after the mid-off cycle. Everyone else had left the Chambers," Orion growled, frustration boiling.

"_Primus_…" Jazz breathed, shock quaking his soul apart. "Primus, Orion, it wasn't him! It's not him! We're chasing the wrong mech!" Jazz spark screamed, anguish and elation fighting for space and control. "It's not _him_!"

"What are you saying?" Orion growled, his optics narrowing. "How do you know it wasn't him? It came from his office, with _his_ authorization codes. His identification is all over the data bits, his comms signals and beacons were the transmission protocols."

"It takes a lot of work, Primus, a ton, but you can fake them!" Jazz cried. "Someone must have been _using_ him! Someone wanted him to fall."

"He's the only one that was ever a suspect. How can you claim it wasn't him, Jazz?"

"Because I was _with_ him last off cycle!" Jazz shouted. "I was _with_ him, from before the midpoint to nearly the on cycle, Orion! I was _with_ him!" His visor burned, defiance bursting from his spark. Prowl was innocent, and now he _knew_ it. He _knew_ it, and if he had only listened to his spark before, he'd have _known_ it then as well. "I was _with_ him," he growled back at Orion Pax.

"You were 'with' him?" Orion's optic ridges rose in disbelief. "In what way?"

"That doesn't matter right now," Jazz hissed. "It wasn't him. We have to find the real infiltrator." Jazz turned and began to run out of the command post.

"Jazz!" Orion Pax called after him. "Where are you going?"

"To find Prowl," Jazz replied. "He's the best lead we've got." _And I have to find him_.

* * *

><p>Prowl stumbled, well low on energon, bruised, battered and sore, singed on the edges, and still numb with shock. He was walking, stumbling really, down the road back to Praxus. He couldn't think of another place to go, no other place in the entire planet that would be safe for him. He had to return to his home, to the city of his own mechs. If it weren't for the horror of how his dalliance with that mech had turned out the cycle prior, he'd have tried to perhaps find him as well. But no, not after being nearly strangled in his own berth. He was <em>such<em> an idiot, such an all-slagged idiot, letting a mech he knew nothing about into his home and his life. No matter how amazing it felt, in the end, it was all for naught. Prowl felt the walls of his spark tremble, the feelings within him of yearning turn to pain and agony.

Praxus lay in the South, and the planet was small enough that even just crossing the equatorial divide led to changes in the weather pattern. A soft misty rain, cool and feather light, drizzled down from above, the first breath of winter creeping into Prowl's frame. The ravages of the Pit unleashed upon the North hadn't touched his home, not yet, and Prowl desperately, bitterly wished that his home could be spared. A stray thought crossed his processor, and he wondered if the price of their salvation would be joining the revolution. Where would his place ultimately be, he wondered. Where would his place in this new world be?

The misty rain was cool upon his face, and Prowl turned his helm upwards, trying to capture the refreshing liquid upon his glossa. His optics, dim and underpowered, barely made out the contrails of the silent Seekers streaking across the grey, pale sky, high above in the upper atmosphere. He frowned, watching their flight, their formation, and he wondered where they were headed. Perhaps to Tarn, or Vos, cities lying to the east of Praxus.

When the first bomb fell and the city center of Praxus went up in flames, exploding outward in a devastating explosion of fiery rage, Prowl knew the final touch of despair. He screamed, trying to run, but he was still too far away, much too far away, and his body was underpowered and unable to sustain the demands he had already pulled from it. He stumbled, falling to his knees, and all he could do was watch the rain of the bombs that fell from the Seekers flying overhead and witness the razing of his hometown, the leveling of everything of his culture and his heritage. Fireballs bloomed against the grey, colorless sky, over and over again. He'd seen too much now, too much betrayal, too much death, too much of everyone and everything turning against everything else, and his spark simply stopped under the crushing weight of it all.

The winter rain mixed with the ash of his burning home, and Prowl pitched forward, lying in the street as the last place on the planet that he could call home, could call his own, was eliminated from existence.

Prowl's optics dimmed, and the flutters of ash turned to rivulets of mud that criss-crossed his helm and cheekarch, sliding to lie on the lips that the mech who tried to murder him had kissed so tenderly the offcycle prior. He wanted to _stop_, stop everything, stop his life, stop his existence, stop the pain that tore through his being, but his spark stubbornly clung to existence. _Figures_, Prowl thought, as the rain and ash continued to fall onto his body. _Figures that I'd fail in dying as well_.

* * *

><p>Megatron turned to Soundwave as Starscream's call crackled through the comm channels. "It is done," Megatron declared, a vicious smile cracking his faceplates in two.<p>

Soundwave nodded once, satisfaction filling the core of his being. He'd been betrayed by a Praxian, one he'd called a friend, and now, no Praxian would ever exist to betray their new world. Megatron had allowed him the order, and Starscream had been only too obliging in leading the trines out to demolish and destroy their one recalcitrant Southern city.

He turned away, his spark as frozen as the cybertundras of the poles, where winter rains collected in the jagged scars of the planet's formation and iced over into thick caps ceaseless frost. Not even the burning of the Pit, or of the depths of Praxus, could thaw his soul.

* * *

><p>Jazz tore down the roadway, his scanners flying. Prowl hadn't been in his flat and he wasn't in Iacon. He'd searched as far as he could, looking in every place that Prowl had ever been to, every place he'd stalked him on his intelligence mission. The Council chambers were burning, and Jazz had prayed that Prowl wasn't in the tower. He was rummaging through the debris of Prowl's blown out and destroyed flat when the comm had broken through his military channel about the razing of Praxus.<p>

Jazz had torn off, speeding as fast as he could go toward Prowl's home city.

Finally, a blip appeared up ahead, the first sign of life he'd seen in joors. There were no reports of survivors from Praxus, no chance for anyone to escape. The damage had been too quick, too decisive, and nothing there remained aside from smoldering ruins and broken promises. Jazz placed all of his hope on the lone sensor blip, racing toward the faint chirp.

When he arrived, the mech he found was covered in soot, ash, and debris, blown there by the winter wind from the debris field that was Praxus. He was unrecognizable, and the steadily falling rain had chilled the mech's systems to nearly freezing. Still, Jazz could just make out the pointed red tips of his chevron, and he raced to his side, brushing away the ash and wet dust as gently as he could. "Prowl!"

Prowl's optics flickered, but he couldn't focus on the mech reaching out to him. He couldn't see, not with his systems so damaged, but the touches were painfully familiar, and his spark began to flicker, pulsing with the yearning he'd chased with a desperation he could nearly taste. It couldn't be, it couldn't _possibly_ be. Fear spiked through Prowl. Had _he_ come to finish what he had started? Was this Prowl's end? Not enough to watch his home be destroyed, but to be murdered as well, lying in the street in the ash and the rain? A sob broke from Prowl's throat. His place in the new world was to be dead, it seemed.

"Prowl!" Jazz screamed, reaching out to touch his face. He could barely feel Prowl at all, and only the faintest hint of their previous surging connection remained thrumming through his fingers. "Prowl, you have to stay here. Primus, you have to stay here! I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know…" Jazz kept up his litany, crooning to Prowl as he crouched next to his body, brushing ash and rain from his face as gently as he could.

Prowl's optics faded offline.

As gently as he could, Jazz rolled them both to the side of the road, lying together in a small, sheltered ditch. He had to warm Prowl up before his systems froze and his spark starved. Already, the sluggish unresponsiveness of his systems was terrifying to Jazz, and his hands shook as he maneuvered Prowl into his arms. Prowl tried to struggle, faint words of protest dying on his lips, but Jazz pulled him close, wrapping his body around Prowl's in a fierce, tender hold. "Prowl, I've got you," Jazz whispered into his audial. "I've got you, you're safe. I promise, you're safe." Jazz swallowed, choking back his own bitter regret and anguish.

A joor later, and still, Prowl's condition hadn't improved. Jazz had whispered sweet nothings in his audials, entreaties to live and to cling to life, to stay with him, passionate pleas to hold on, whispers of longing and secrets, but still, Jazz could feel Prowl slipping away. Jazz was growing desperate and the rain continued to fall. He had to get Prowl to safety, but Prowl wouldn't last long enough to make it to any sort of Autobot medical facility, especially if they all were on the run up to the Northern wilds.

Desperate and near out of his processor with frantic worry, Jazz did the only thing his spark told him to do. He didn't even question it, and a small part of his mind decided that he would never question his spark again. If he had only _listened_, none of this would have happened and he wouldn't have nearly destroyed the one mech that had ever meant anything to him. Jazz rolled Prowl to his back, climbing on top of him, and forcefully triggered his own sparkplates open. His spark, burning with intensity, burst forth, tendrils flaring down to reach for Prowl.

Finally, Prowl reacted, his optics surging and flickering at the feeling and the sight of Jazz's spark. He began to struggle, trying to escape, but he was too weak. Again, Jazz had to restrain him, kneeling on Prowl's wrists tucked against his hips, and Prowl's fear spiked alongside his struggles.

As gently as he could, Jazz reached out and pulled Prowl's sparkplates apart, separating them slowly.

Prowl's spark, pulsing faintly and trembling, surged to Jazz at the first breach of Prowl's plating.

Tendrils of their sparks intertwined, automatically seeking each other out. The passion, the emotions, the raw burning that had captivated the both of them since that first touch was magnified, exploding in intensity, and a new understanding of unity, of purpose, and of soul-deep contentment and certainty ripped through each of their beings. It was raw, majestically so, and nothing could restrain the power.

Prowl screamed, throwing his helm backward as unwelcome, unwanted life and love poured into his soul. He tried to struggle, tried to escape, but Jazz was everywhere, all around him, and there was no way out. He'd never felt the intensity of feeling before, never felt such a concentration of feeling directed toward him, and it was simply terrifying. At the end of all things, at the end of his world, Prowl had never expected to find such love.

"Prowl, stop fighting!" Jazz pleaded, sobbing. "Please, please! You _have_ to stay here. You _have_ to hang on. Please…." He wrapped himself around Prowl's body, letting his spark energy fill Prowl's being.

Finally, after what seemed like joors, Prowl's struggles stopped and his body went limp beneath Jazz. Their sparks calmed, no longer surging wildly. The storm was within now, the realignment of their souls and sparks alighting their bodies into one unit, one being, one soul divided only by plating and wires. Jazz fell offline, his body resting on top of Prowl's, sheltering him from the storm as the winter rain continued to fall upon their bodies.

* * *

><p>Prowl onlined slowly in a makeshift medical tent, a syringe of energon stuck into the lines at the neck. Mechs were lying on cots all around him, and he realized with a small start that he was surrounded by soldiers.<p>

"Prowl, right?" a clipped voice snapped from his left side. Prowl's helm whipped around, staring at a white medic with a grey chevron. "I'm Ratchet. You were banged up pretty bad, but you're going to be fine. Rest for a little longer, then get the slag out. I need the cot." Ratchet made a few notes on his data pad and walked away without a word.

Prowl's optics darted from right to left, staring around him. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was… _Praxus_. Prowl's throat constricted violently, the agony of watching his home destroyed replaying in his spark.

But wait… there had been _something_ else. Another mech. No, _the_ other mech. He had found him! He had come for Prowl, had found him, and… seemingly saved him. Prowl remembered soft hands, tender words, and his spark flared as it too remembered _something_ else. Prowl glanced down, and the scratched paint and dents around his sparkplates couldn't lie.

That mech had spark merged with him.

That mech had saved his life.

There was a different feeling within him, as if his entire soul was slightly off key. There were parts of himself, parts of his soul, that had been rubbed raw and were now soothed over. Areas of darkness and panic deep within him were now gently pacified. Areas within of loneliness, now filled with an indescribable something, a sense that he was no longer alone, not anymore, not in this world.

Faintly, across the dirty, cold plating of the planet, Prowl could hear the rambling tune of a mech's whistle, reclining in a cot and recovering from his own wounds. Prowl's audials followed the notes, carried the pitch, and it was the first time he'd ever heard music in his life.

Stupefied, Prowl sat all alone in a medical tent in the middle of Primus knew where, surrounded by Autobot soldiers with no memory of how he had gotten there. Was that mech a soldier? Did he bring him to this place?

"Prowl?"

A deeper voice resounded from Prowl's other side, and he twisted around, staring up into the faceplates of a large warrior mech. Prowl, who had been fingering the evidence of his spark merge, suddenly stiffened. The mech before him projected power, authority, and purpose, and he suddenly felt inadequate before him with the blatant evidence of his merge for all to see.

"My name is Optimus Prime," the mech began. "How are you feeling?"

Prowl swallowed, taking stock of his physical condition. Truthfully, he felt better than he had in a while. "Physically, I am alright," he said, his voice strong and steady. He swallowed, the images of Praxus flashing before his optics once more.

Prime nodded. "I am glad to hear that. I want to offer you my personal condolences on the loss of your city. We have identified two other Praxian survivors."

"Two?" Prowl's voice was a whisper.

Prime nodded grimly. "I am afraid so. We're still hoping more refugees find us."

"Where am I?"

"You are with what's left of the Autobot Army, camped in our new headquarters in the Northern Wilds. Megatron has seized control of the planet, and we're now the insurgency." Prime's optics crinkled, and Prowl could imagine a grim smile forming behind his battle mask. "It is somewhat ironic."

"Indeed," Prowl mused.

"I would like to offer you a billet in my command," Prime continued, his voice strong once more. "I have lost many of my officers. I need a mech with your talents for analysis and tactical planning."

"Me?" Prowl was aghast. "I've never had any sort of military training at all."

"My engineers can build for you a battle computer. It can supplement your natural talent and skill with the specialized military knowledge you will need." Prime stood, waiting.

Frowning, Prowl shook his helm. "How do you know anything about me? I'm just a mech."

Prime's optics twinkled for a brief moment. "Your reputation preceded you, Prowl."

Prowl's helm shot up. "Who told you about me?"

Prime reached out with one hand, squeezing Prowl's shoulder gently. "Please let me know your decision quickly. Let Ratchet know if you need to speak with me again. I have much to do and I could use your help right away." He squeezed once more, then dropped his hand and turned to leave.

Prowl watched him stride off, power and purpose trailing after his every move. He turned to say a few words to many of the injured soldiers, and Prowl saw genuine care reflected in each of their optics. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, offlining his optics.

Was this is new purpose? Was this his place in the new world?

_Yes_, his spark whispered. Prowl's optics surged online.

So be it.

* * *

><p>Prime stepped outside the medical tent and the cold wind of the tundra bit instantly into his plating. It was always winter up in the wilderness, and the elevation kept the rain frozen as snow all year round. The sky was bleak, grey tones upon grey tones, merging with the grey dull metal of the planet's surface. Only the scuffed plating of his soldiers brought any color to the location.<p>

Jazz shifted on his feet, trying to stay warm. "Well?" Jazz asked.

"He's doing fine," Prime nodded. "I offered him the position. We'll see what he says." Prime paused, gazing at Jazz. "He asked who recommended him. He'll ask who brought him here."

Jazz inhaled deeply and looked away, blowing on his hands and fingers cupped around his mouth. "He doesn't know who I am," Jazz said softly, shaking his helm. "He doesn't know anything about me."

"How should I answer his questions, then?"

"That mech is dead," Jazz said slowly, his voice dropping. "He's long gone."

Slowly, Prime nodded, and silence stretched out between the pair. "When are you leaving?" Prime finally asked.

Heaving a sigh, Jazz turned to peer south. "Now," he said. "I was just waiting for…" He trailed off, his helm motioning back toward the medical tent. "Our satellites have picked up some comms traffic about Soundwave and I want to go see for myself what's up."

Prime nodded. "Gather as much intel as you can. I expect you back here in six orns."

"Understood." Jazz nodded, blowing on his cupped fingers once more. His optics rose, meeting Prime's hesitantly, and the blowing wind dragged a burst of snow in between their bodies. "Thank you," Jazz whispered. "I just… Thank you."

Prime nodded once. "Trust your spark, Jazz. I'll see you when you get back."

* * *

><p>Prowl stood on the southern edge of the Autobot camp, staring out into the winter wilderness. Snow drifts blew into new patterns with the ever-present winds, and the biting air was near deathly frigid at most times. It was an inhospitable place for a headquarters, but tactically, it was brilliant. Megatron could not march up to attack them, not without his supply lines suffering from fatigue and the power failures of such a journey breaking his mechs before the winter weather ever could. Seeker engines would freeze at the altitudes required to fly. Tactically, the location was perfect.<p>

Prowl had a new appreciation for such things, now that his battle computer had been successfully installed. He worked with Prime on formulating their return strike against Megatron and on the next moves of their burgeoning civil war. Prowl, who had fought bitterly against the insurgents while working for Senator Emberwire, found it ironic that he was now also an insurgent.

At the end of every cycle, Prowl always wandered to the southern edge of the Autobot camp and stared into the distance. He couldn't explain it, and no one ever bothered him in his solitary ritual. Somewhere, far and away, a mech existed who had bonded to Prowl, who had the answers to the questions Prowl's soul had always asked, and who had saved his life with his unasked for love. Somewhere out there, the other half of Prowl's being existed, and Prowl hadn't a clue who he was.

Somewhere out there, his spark yearned for his partner.


End file.
